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We bought a new bed today.

Oh, yeah, well, what did you do with YOUR Sunday?

I thought it would be more difficult, but a) we needed, at long last, a real soft king-sized bed like real adult couples have, b) we knew what the price ballpark should be, c) we bounced on beds at Macy's first and took notes, and d) we found a good deal and grabbed it. Of course, the price was not exactly small change, but it's only money. Hadda, so did.

There wasn't much dispute over the choice or the cost- we both like the pillow-top, we knew we were in for a big expense. In fact, there was one issue, one thing we had to think of before telling the salesman to wrap it up.

Ella.

Ella the World's Most Famous Cat likes to sleep on our bed. This new bed is substantially higher than the present 12 year old deal, and we had to think about her leaping abilities- after all, we didn't want to have the poor little girl unable to join us in our splendor. Then Fran reminded me that she jumps onto the dresser and the bookshelves, and I remembered that when there's a moth or spider high up on the other side of the glass, she gets up there like Michael Jordan.

Sold!

And now comes the part I hadn't really thought much about. New bed, new size... new bedding. Fran loves this- she's ready to buy all new sheets and comforters and a new headboard and everything. I, on the other hand, trudged through Bed Bath and Beyond and Linens and Things thinking "they get HOW MUCH for this stuff?" And we have to get fitted sheets with extra-big pockets, 18 inchers, sheets that are in short supply and tend to cost more. I think this was part of Fran's secret plan all along.

I'm gonna leave this to her anyway. I've done my share. Instead of going to the Dodger game, I spent my Sunday shopping for mattresses and bedding. That's gotta win me some points on the Good Husband scale, right?

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I'm sorry. Did you say there's a political convention going on? Sorry, I wasn't around to watch any of it. We had to go out shopping for bed sheets. And the Dodger game was on the radio.

The political stuff's been getting to be too uninteresting for me again. That's a dangerous condition for someone who makes a living having an opinion about politics, but I'm going to admit something here that I reserve the right to retract at any time: at the moment, I don't really care about any of it.

It's weird, really, since my friends seem to have gotten more interested in recent days- I've been drawn into several political discussions in the last week. But my heart's not in it, because I have way too many other things on my mind. Iraq? The economy? Gas prices? The NL East race? Please- I can't control any of it, and whatever happens, happens. I'm not involved in war planning, the Treasury, commodities trading, or Larry Bowa's brain trust. I'm just some guy in L.A. with a car that really needs an oil change one of these days, some aching muscles, a scratch on his forearm where the cactus plant was sticking out as he passed on his run, a ton of bills, several arguments with financial institutions over pieces of his father's estate, and the lingering gloom from said father's passing just about two months ago. Clinton's giving a speech? If he's not IN THIS ROOM giving the talk to ME on an individual basis, right now, I just don't care. We have several months left before we get to vote. There's plenty of time.

Besides, what good are conventions anyway? The nominees have been in place for a while, the speeches say nothing new, the platforms are built to be dismantled as soon as the last balloon reaches the rafters. They're places for the elite to meet and the rest of us to... I don't know what the rest of us are supposed to do, but caring isn't on that list. I got my own problems.

So, no, I don't have a pithy, witty comment on Clinton's performance, or Gore's, or anyone else's. Want a comment on Macy's system of ordering merchandise from another store in another state when the size you want is out of stock?

No?

'S all I got right now. Maybe I'll be more motivated tomorrow.

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The L.A. Times has an article this morning about Rev. Al Sharpton. It's more of a loving profile by Robin Abcarian, a former talk radio host who, apparently, has been blinded and bedazzled by the glow of the Rev.'s personality. The article's in the arts-and-leisure Calendar section, meaning that only paid subscribers can access it on the web, so for those of you who can't see it, here's a summary:

Paragraph 1: Rev. is generous.
Paragraph 2: Rev. makes quip about generosity.
Paragraph 3: Rev. has changed, not a reckless demagogue anymore.
Paragraph 4: Rev. is a crowd favorite.
Paragraph 5: Rev. speaks tonight!
Paragraph 6: Rev. has fan in Harvard law professor. Rev. is Fannie Lou Hamer of his generation.
Paragraph 7: Rev. didn't do as well as Carol Moseley Braun and Jesse.
Paragraph 8: Rev. isn't loved by Jesse.
Paragraph 9: Rev. acts triumphant anyway.
Paragraph 10: Rev. didn't even win South Carolina black vote.
Paragraph 11: Rev. has small staff, makes up for it with irrepressible optimism.
Paragraph 12: Rev. has Spike TV, MSNBC deals.
Paragraph 13: Rev.'s fan at Harvard gushes that Rev. will speak at convention.
Paragraph 14: Rev. now backing Kerry.
Paragraph 15: Rev. coy about speech topic. Rev. is family man.
Paragraph 16: Rev. is family man, worries about family safety.
Paragraph 17: Rev. campaigns for Kerry at churches.
Paragraph 18: Rev. meets Bush, trashes Bush.
Paragraph 19: Rev. finishes trashing Bush.

But in all of this admiration, there are a few missing pieces.

No mention of Tawana Brawley and Steven Pagones.

No mention of Michael Jackson.

No mention of Michael Franzese and the lawsuit.

No mention of how he gets his money.

How do you write a sizeable article about Rev. Al Sharpton and leave out any mention of any of this stuff? It's like writing a profile about Bill Clinton without mentioning the impeachment and the blue dress, like writing an article about George W. without mentioning Iraq. This stuff's critical to the story- the fact that the Democrats are welcoming, celebrating a guy who accused cops of rape and has yet to admit that the story wasn't true belongs in any article about him, yet Abcarian manages to get through 19- 19 paragraphs without even hinting that Sharpton might have some issues deeper than not having won South Carolina or having ticked off Rev. Jesse Jackson in some unspecified way.

And I have to PAY to get this stuff delivered to my driveway.

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I don't know whether it's wise to write about a customer service snafu when you're still freshly seething over it, so I'll keep this brief:

In my opinion, ING Direct, the online banking operation, treats the customer like crap.

I have provided them with more paperwork- 34 PAGES- to close my late father's account and return the money to his brick-and-mortar bank account than I have had to provide to anyone- banks, brokerages, even the State of Florida do not require as much. And it took a FULL MONTH for them to decide that they wanted MORE, MORE THAN EVEN THE STATE OF FLORIDA REQUIRES. And that's not the outrageous part. See, after I sent them that paperwork by Certified Mail, they took a month to decide they wanted more...

...and DIDN'T TELL ME.

They didn't call. They didn't write. They didn't e-mail. AND THEY WEREN'T GOING TO.

So I called to find out what was going on and was told that I had to send more, paperwork I don't have because I didn't need it and in order to GET it, I have to have my attorneys do it at great expense. So I asked them to reconsider, because they were already in full possession of proof that a) my father is dead, b) I'm the executor/personal representative, and c) I've sent instructions on what to do with the account. And the CSR told me someone would get back to me in a day or two with an answer.

A week later, I called to find out why they hadn't gotten back to me. Answer: THEY WEREN'T GOING TO GET BACK TO ME.

Judging by my experience, it seems to me that it's ING Direct's corporate policy NOT to respond to questions, problems, or anything else. I was told by a CSR and a supervisor that consumers may only speak to sales reps, and that the office in Minnesota "doesn't take phone calls." Or give them. Or send e-mails, or take them from customers. It's like they're hermetically sealed up in St. Cloud.

They just don't want to let go of the money, do they?

So here it is, two months after my father died, and there's one financial institution that refuses to make things easier on the survivors. Thank you, ING Direct. I'm sure you have several branches in Hell.

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Speech? What speech? There's a speech on TV?

Screw that. Our new bed showed up.

Excuse me.

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I've been working out with weights lately, because my daily run hasn't been doing it for me lately. I still run every day, but after 23 years, my body doesn't care HOW much cardio I do. You look at me, you don't see a guy who runs 6 miles a day. You see a stocky, flabby guy, not exactly Michael Moore fat, more like a guy with a little bit- okay, more than a little bit- of a gut. And I hate being that out of shape, hence the weight thing. My goal: I don't know. Maybe some toning. Maybe some weight loss. A six-pack isn't going to happen, that's for sure, but I needed to do SOMEthing.

So three times a week, I head for the Y and do some weights, which has become a daily exercise in emasculation. See, I really don't know WHAT I'm doing there. I've gotten advice from friends who lift, I've checked books, I even had a trainer at the Y walk me through the equipment, although I suspect he knew not a whole lot more than I did. The upshot is that I go there and I imagine that I look like a weak, clueless fool. I can't really lift a lot of weight- even using that machine with hooks and pulleys that help you cheat a little with the bar, I can't really do a lot of weight. (Forget the bench with no hooks and pulleys- I can't keep the bar straight, I wobble, I get spastic) I can do the "machines," those circuit things, but so can the elderly and infirm. The Real Man stuff, the free weights in the Real Man corner of the weight room, well, I look like Jerry Lewis out there. And I'm surrounded by guys who KNOW what they're doing, and I just know they're snickering at me.

I understand the appeal of the home gym, really, I do.

But I'm going anyway, because my suspension of vanity for an hour will, I hope, feed my vanity soon enough. I'm never going to look like the guys in Men's Health magazine- I don't WANT to look like that- but at some point I might look like I know what I'm doing in the free weight area. That would be a good start.

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